The Devil Looks Out For His Own
by Joss Teagan
Summary: It wasn't chance that threw Sherlock and John together that day in Bart's- it was Moriarty. A loyal employee of Jim's, John is sent to befriend Sherlock. But will the detective be fooled by John's charm? And how will John make sure he doesn't go the way of countless others, in love with a cold, emotionless man who can never love them back? Hearts will break before they burn.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Most of this fic is written, just need to fineline a few things, hammer out a few details. This is an AU- alternative universe- the characters meeting in ways you've never seen! Reviews feed the plot bunnies so don't be shy to say hello! As well as this site, you can find me on Wattpad, Twitter, Archiveofourown and many others, any place that can have me, really. Hope you enjoy this fic!**

**Always yours, Joss Teagan**

John was choking down another mouthful of lager, considering his situation. He used to enjoy alcohol as much as the next man would, but seeing his sister ruin her life all the name of the next drink had made him wary of the stuff. He grimaced, cheap booze in an unfriendly pub was the best he could afford.

"You look like you're drinking poison. "

John scowled, looked at the man who'd slipped onto the bar stool adjacent to his. "This stuff's so bad, it might as well be," when the man laughed, John added "In fact I think I'd rather down a glass of cyanide. Would have more of a kick."

"You know, you're funny. The obvious poison to mention is arsenic, it's like everyone knows that one. But cyanide, that's good," The man rapped his knuckles on the bar to signal a drink, not taking his eyes off John. "Sparkling cyanide."

"Is that what you're ordering?" the barman joked and the man took his eyes off John to speak to the bartender. John went back to his drink, but soon the man was talking to him again. John wanted to tell him to fuck off, but the man, with his muscular build and craggy face seemed like the type who wouldn't appreciate that.

"So, if the drink isn't that good, why are you here?" He surveyed John over his glass, green eyes amused but watchful all the same. John didn't see any reason to lie.

"Got no money. No prospects. Bit hopeless, really."

"Oh yeah? What _were_ you doing?"

"I was in the army. A captain, respected. One bullet to the shoulder, then I'm sent home with an honourable discharge. I've been here a few months. Feels longer." John glowered down at his glass as if it had been responsible for his unemployment. "It was a real kick in the teeth, you know?"

"Absolutely. I was kicked out too."

"You were in the army?"

"Yeah. Oh that's stupid, haven't properly introduced myself," He drew himself up to his full height, which had to be six foot three at minimum. "Colonel Sebastian Moran." They shook hands.

"Pleased to meet you, Colonel. I'm Captain John Watson. I was a doctor."

" A doctor, really? Could be useful. You know…" Moran took a slow sip of his beer. "My boss could do with a man like you working for him. I could show you the ropes, it wouldn't be a bother, after all, we're the same. Two good soldiers, stopped before we could become great, kicked out by Her Majesty's armed forces, cut down in our prime. This thing could work."

"Did you receive an honourable discharge too?"

"What I received was a metaphorical jackboot up my arse, that's what I received. But Watson, I realised I didn't have to stop and grow fat and stupid just because I wasn't a soldier anymore. There are still challenges, people to fight, battlefields. You and me, we're meant to be out there in the thick of it, not drinking this fucking _bleach_ while our brains rot."

"Why do I get the impression that what you're suggesting isn't…exactly legal?" John slowly said.

"Semantics, John. We got screwed over by the government and nobody helped us. I suppose you're paying for your drinks tonight with some of your pitiful army pension. Well, if you decide you want to start living again, call me."

"You've giving me your number?" John frowned when Sebastian slid the scrap of paper across, bearing his scrawled name and number.

"One of many. I have a few phones."

"And how do you know I'll call? In fact, how do you know I won't inform the police about you?"

Sebastian smiled and shook his head, not looking at all bothered. "Because you haven't felt this alive in a good while." He slung a few bank notes on the counter. "There. Should be enough for the rest of your drinks tonight. Goodbye, John." And he strode away, not looking back.

When John got home, although he had no intentions of ringing that number, for some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to throw that paper away. He managed eight days until he dialled the number with shaking fingers.

"Yeah?" Sebastian's groggy, sleep-roughened voice was suspicious.

"Sebastian? It's John. John Watson…any chance that that job offer's still going?"


	2. Chapter 2

"So can you tell me anything about your boss?" John predicted the answer before Sebastian spoke.

"Not a lot, I'm afraid, privacy's really the name of the game here. Discretion. But I suppose I could tell a few things, just vague stuff, stuff that won't compromise my place working for him."

John and Sebastian were walking, weaving their way through the steady stream of tourists. Sebastian was going to be introducing John to his employer soon, in a café. Seemed an odd place for a job interview, but John wasn't going to question it. Sebastian looked relaxed in a T-shirt and khaki slacks, but John was fidgeting in his suit, pulling at the collar nervously.

"My boss picked me out years ago, saw potential in me. You know what we do isn't strictly _legal,_" Sebastian mouthed the last word. "but it pays well. Sounds callous but he gets us, you know? He has a talent for just unleashing a person's strengths, just through the way that he speaks to you. And he's smart. Proper genius. I believe he could lead the country."

"He sounds…impressive. Any, ahem, anything else I should know about? Any reasons why I might _not _like working for him?"

He saw Sebastian was grinning at him. "Nice. Very subtle. He's no angel, he's got quite a temper on him. When Jim gets mad, bad things happen. But if you just do your job and don't provoke him, you'll be fine. It's hard to find loyal people, so if you stick by him, he'll make it worth it."

"Ok, doesn't sound too bad. I've been yelled at by drill sergeants , I can handle his temper."

"If you say so," Sebastian said with a shrug. "You survive the first week, he might just like you."

They'd stopped by a café. To John's surprise, it looked completely deserted, peeling paint and scrawled graffiti adorned the walls, and was filthy, the windows thick with grime and dust. John followed Sebastian, nervously glancing up at the pigeons nesting on the dirt awning.

"Horrible beasts," Sebastian said. "I've gone up to the country before, shot pheasants. It's a proper sport. Now they're magnificent creatures. These little shits though, look at 'em, hovering up there eyeballing us- you ever seen _The Birds_, John?"

"Of course,"

"Great. You and me, we'll have to kick back sometime, a six pack of Special Brew, watch some classic Hitchcock films. It'll be fun," Sebastian looked slyly at John from the corner of his eye. "You're scared, aren't you?"

"No." John lied.

"Hm. Well…you should be."

Sebastian hauled open the door, a large glass sheet that was almost opaque due to the dirt and dust.

"Why do we have to meet him here?"

"He's a busy man. If he says for us to meet him here, we meet him here."  
They walked through the abandoned restaurant, treading softly on the thick carpet of dust. Now that John studied it, he could see footprints in the dust, and wondered if this place actually served as a base for- whatever _Jim_ did.

John was expecting them to halt by one of the large round tables but instead, Sebastian lead him past the seating, and through a swinging door to the kitchen.

"Moriarty, I got John-"

"Shout any louder, Sebby, the whole street will hear you!" a voice called back. Sebastian rushed to the speaker, John at his heels, and John got his first look of his potential new boss.

It hadn't occurred to John before to ask what Jim's surname was, which was ridiculous because he could hardly address an employer by their first name. Perhaps Sebastian wouldn't have told him though, it might have been sensitive information. Whatever John was expecting when he had first heard of Sebastian's boss, it hadn't been the pallid beanpole coolly leaning against a counter and smoking a cigarette. John cast a doubtful eye over the porridge-coloured complexion and hangdog face, and felt a little cheated.

"Jim, John Watson. John, I give you- Jim Moriarty." Sebastian wore the expression of a proud child presenting their parent with a sticky drawing. John nodded and smiled awkwardly, a smile that Jim didn't return. Jim looked him up and down, made a noise like "Hrurr" under his breath, and turned to stub his cigarette against the counter.

Sebastian was no help, raising his eyebrows in confusion at Jim's apathy, and a silence settled over the trio, as thick and heavy as the dust coating the floor. John actually jumped when a sound broke the silence, a muffled moan that went on and on, a sound of pain and fear. Jim sighed, bending down to drag something out of the dark, cavernous space underneath the worktop. John supposed it used to house some sort of machine, a dish washer or dryer.

He couldn't see what Jim was hauling out of the darkness, but he was made aware of how slim Jim was, his suit tight-fitting, but deliberately so, the suit jacket ending just above his waist, so John was treated to a view of his shapely arse as he bent. Immediately, John felt guilty, and not just because he was ogling his prospective employer. John wasn't sure when he had first become aware of his interest in men, but it had been quickly followed by a determination to keep that side of himself hidden, at least to his family. His parents were distressed enough by having one gay child, he couldn't bear himself to be a concern for their outdated views as well.

Jim sidestepped the bulky mass on the floor to give them a better view of it. To John's horror, he realised it was a man, a portly, balding man shivering and sniffling on the floor. Sebastian didn't look surprised, his hand twitched at his waist, reminding of himself, reaching for a phantom gun. Although Sebastian was most probably armed.

"John, I'm sure Seb wouldn't have brought you here if he didn't think you had bottle, and I've learnt to trust his judgement, to some degree," John hadn't realised he was Irish, when he first spoke. "And I'm sure this all looks very odd to you, but this is what we do. I don't want you under any allusions. I do what I have to do, whatever it takes. And Seb- he does whatever I tell him to."

"And- and what's that man done to you?" John said, trying to keep his voice even as he gestured to the man trembling on the ground. He resisted the flinch his body was forcing on him as murky brown eyes fixed on him, staring unblinkingly. He felt like that cold gaze was shooting forth icicles that pierced his chest, to glimpse at the muscle and gristle glistening wetly underneath.

"He decided he was desperate enough to request my services, but confident enough not to pay me when the time came. I'm just taking my…pound of flesh," Jim's foot snaked around the man's tied arms, a shiny black brogue resting on the turgid, barrel-like chest. Jim pressed harder with his foot and the man whimpered. "Even if his flesh is _repugnant._"

"You're going to k-kill him just because he didn't pay up?"

"I'm not going to kill him. You are."

John's shock must have registered on his face because Jim hooted with laughter and Sebastian laid a hand on his back, a reassuring gesture. Poor Sebastian, he could have been a good friend. How had he ended up in this job? Sebastian was bitter and had obviously made some mistakes, but John was sure he could have found a more reputable job if he'd tried harder.

"I can't, I can't, I can't do it," John's eyes rolled like marbles as he searched the room, wishing he could see a convenient kitchen knife or even a blunt section of pipe to use to defend himself. Sebastian was standing square in the doorway, probably under orders not to let John through. John had seen too much. Jim would never let him go now.

"That's a shame, John, because someone's dying tonight. Certainly, this whiskery piece of filth was never concerned with causing harm when he raped his ex-girlfriend,"

John stopped dead, seeing the snivelling, hog-tied heap on the floor with an altered perspective. Jim's voice had seemed nasal and reedy when he had first spoken, but now his voice took on a smooth, velvety purr, speaking bitter, scalding words in the manner of an actor advertising some designer luxury.

"He beat her until she bled, then tore her open with his stubby, sweating penis," Jim continued silkily, straightening his midnight-blue tie. John thought distractedly that it complemented his navy suit rather well. Jim withdrew an item from a smart black case, pressing the cool object into John's hands. John gripped the familiar thing, his index finger caressing the trigger, the cool metal of the gun blessedly cold against his hot palm. He tried to formulate some response, some brilliant, concise argument that could allow him to walk out of here with his freedom and his life, but Jim slipped past him to stand behind him, delicate, pale hands grabbing John's shoulder, then slipping down to wrists and then finally his hands. John couldn't have dropped the gun even if he wanted to. Jim's hands were cool and soft on his own, a slight pressure of Jim's body against his back. John swallowed, feeling beads of sweat roll down his forehead, and he tried to step back but only succeed in making Jim press flush against him, the slim body moulding against his own. The excitement of having a gun, pointing it, aiming, knowing he could shoot, was heady. He couldn't do any clever move of turning around to threaten Jim with it because there was no room to move. And Jim knew that. Whatever happened, it would be in Jim's favour.

Cold lips drifted over John's ear, whispering "_He came back for her daughter…_"

And John pulled the trigger. The effects were instantaneous; the man sagged, going limp, blood spurting from his chest. Jim released John, patting him gently on the back, and John stumbled to the sink, certain he was going to vomit. He retched but only phlegm and water came out, and his legs buckled as he gripped the sink tightly.

"Seb, clean this up. Johnny boy, you did well. Welcome to the team." Thankfully, Jim didn't try to shake his hand. John closed his eyes as he heard grunts and scraping sounds, Sebastian disposing of the empty shell of a man. John had killed a man, not an innocent man, but he had committed murder, _as a civilian._

He felt the air shift as Jim stood by him, and he turned away. Jim sighed, and told Sebastian to call a cab for John. John ran his hands under the taps, wishing he could somehow wash away the shame he felt.

"You were just doing your job, Johnny," Jim whispered to him before slipping out of the room. John didn't look around until Jim was long gone and the corpse was removed, and when Sebastian rode back with him in the cab, John remained stony-faced and silent. When he tossed and turned in his hard, lumpy bed that night, he wasn't sure if it was due to the horror of the night or the spike of sweet adrenaline he'd felt as he'd took a life.


End file.
